


After, Always

by OmgReally



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Fluff, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Established Relationship, F/M, Intimacy, Kissing, Morning After, Other soft things, Possessive Din Djarin, Post-Smut Angst and Fluff, Prompt Fill, Soft Din Djarin, Touching, just general softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 13:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmgReally/pseuds/OmgReally
Summary: A moment between the Mandalorian and his lover, after the frenzy is over.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77





	After, Always

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for @djarinsbeskar on tumblr - Aftercare, Physical intimacy

The smooth expanse of your skin glistens in the wan half-light of the ship’s hold, odd-shaped shadows cast by crates and cargo painting your body in a chiascoro of jagged edges and smooth curves. The Mandalorian admires them, admires the way your breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of your slowing breath, and allows his hand - his bare hand - to trace the shape of you, his fingers mapping the fan of your ribs.

There are marks, too, marks that he has left - deep, purpling bruises sucked into the flesh of your neck, your collar, the outline of his teeth on your shoulder. He should feel shame, he knows; shame for all of this, but all he can muster is a distinctly male pride: The pride of possession, of branding you so that all who look upon even a sliver of your skin will know - _you are his_.

Still, that pride wars with a distinct spark of concern when he finds the bruises from his hands, a near-perfect outline of his digits over your hips, and in the semi-darkness, his brow knits with a frown.

“Are you - okay, mesh’la?” he asks, his unfiltered voice hoarse and rich in the semi-darkness. Your eyelids flutter, and you raise them to look up at him; relief floods him in counterpoint to your radiant smile.

“I’m…perfect,” you rasp, raw and ruined like a torched nerve. You can’t bring yourself to move, for everything aches in the most wonderful way. You’re sticky with sweat and other bodily fluids and your skin smarts where Mando has claimed you but you’ve never felt better, more alive.

“Yes,” the warrior agrees, his voice breaking where it shouldn’t, and you turn your cheek to his palm as he lifts it to the side of your face. “You are.”

With the hand on your face and the other impossibly gentle on your shoulder, he draws you close. You’re about to protest at the state of you, but he silences all of it with his embrace, suppresses any hint of hesitancy with the broad expanse of his chest, the enclosing safety of his arms around you, the bright, sharp smell of his hair and the musk of his skin smothering any and all desire you have to be anywhere except here, with him.

“Did I hurt you?” he murmurs, needing reassurance as much as he needs to reassure you. You muffle a laugh against his sternum and curl an arm up, around his neck. The touch might have been alien once but is now as familiar and comforting as the weight of his armor.

“If you did, I definitely enjoyed it at the time,” you say, your tone too light, too jovial for this moment. His hand curls around your wrist and you pull back at his prompting. You can just about see his eyes and the outline of the furrows in his forehead above a sharp, strong nose, and your only recently-slowed breath catches at the intensity of his expression.

“Did I _hurt_ you?” he repeats, serious, as if it’s a life-or-death question - maybe for him, it _is_. You soften, touch his face with your free hand, and your heart aches when he flinches. He’s still not used to being on the receiving end of any kind of _tenderness_ or _kindness_ , although he is capable of so much of it himself. It’s a dichotomy he can’t yet reconcile.

“No,” you say gently. “Not in the way you mean.” He makes you feel safe, and loved, and care for, in a way nobody else ever has - in a way you’re not sure you deserve.

If only you knew that the Mandalorian feels the exact same way.

In lieu of words, though, there is touch, and this is a language Din Djarin has learned far more quickly than any other. His lips taste like you - the memory of what you did together here on the deck stretched out atop his spread-out cloak - and the promise of _more_ , for he is always eager, always ravenous when he kisses you. This time though, it’s slower, a more thoughtful brush of his mouth over yours, a soothing pressure that makes you sigh and the space inside your chest expand.

“I’ll always take care of you, cyare,” he tells you, and although you don’t know what the Mando’a words mean, they never fail to make you weak and warm inside. “Always.”

“I know,” you tell him, and you smile against his stubbled cheek. “And I’ll take care of you, too.”

His grip on you tightens for a moment, and then he melts, like ice over a flame. He presses his mouth to your neck as if he can kiss away the marks there. For he knows, now, that he doesn’t need anything visible to know that you are his - and he is yours.

Always.

**Author's Note:**

> [i'm on tumblr](http://omgreally.tumblr.com), come say hi and share quality mando and pedro pascal memes


End file.
